


to keep a brother

by orphan_account



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bodyswap, Erik Killmonger Has Feelings, Erik Killmonger Lives, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Erik Killmonger, Post-Black Panther (2018), Wakanda (Marvel), i was just playing around with my imagination and then everything got intense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:13:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24809080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “'That may be', Erik admits, sucking air between his teeth. 'But I am your king. We ain’t doing shit without my sayso.' He smiles once more and peels his lips back into a smile. 'And the king says no.''T’Challa', Ramonda says sternly. 'Could I have a moment with you?'Erik clicks his tongue at her. 'Ramonda', he starts, pleased at the befuddled expression that crosses her face. 'You know I would, but, as luck would have it, I am the king; got kingly matters to attend to.' He goes to toss his dreadlocks over his shoulders. They aren’t there, of course, so he settles for batting his lashes as he rises to his feet. 'Could it wait?''...I suppose.''Great!' Erik claps his hands, then saunters towards the back exit. 'It was lovely meeting with y’all, as always, but I’ve got better things to do.'". . .There's an incident in Shuri's lab. Needless to say, Erik's never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Relationships: Erik Killmonger & T'Challa
Kudos: 14





	to keep a brother

**Author's Note:**

> Was looking through my drive earlier and wow, the last time I worked on this fic was literally a year ago. Figured I should probably do something with it so here it is! I'm still debating if I'll actually post the whole thing, but if next Sunday comes and goes and I haven't, then you know the answer 😂😂😂.  
> Uhhhh, this started out mostly crack (my first ever actually and it only took like six years lol), but I think I fell down a rabbit hole on the mcu wiki cuz I'm looking this over, and shit gets kinda intense later on.  
> Anyhoo. As always, I'll be editing as I go, but bear in mind, I haven't touched this is like a year, so it's gonna be a journey for the both of us lol. I hope y'all like it.

It’s not so much that he immediately realizes something’s wrong as it is that he realizes something’s right. 

His bed, for one. It’s soft; soft like that ridiculous bed they tried to stick him with when T’Challa first set up this little arrangement. Soft like he hasn’t known in a long time, soft like he hasn’t allowed himself to want in a long time. 

Then it’s his back. While Erik’s never been one for neglecting his physical health, his back’s certainly seen better days, a fact which, admittedly, probably stems from years of sleeping on whatever was available. And it’s not that it’s necessarily an unwelcome change, but it’s a positive one, and he doesn’t need to be fully awake to realize those don’t come cheap. 

Blearily pushing past the remaining haze of sleep, Erik rises from his unusually soft bed and goes to scratch his head. He’s gotten a few good drags in when he realizes that’s not his durag; seconds after that, he comes to the startling realization that beneath the cap, his dreadlocks are missing. 

Erik leaps out of bed, stumbling a few feet upon being overwhelmed with a sudden case of vertigo. He shakes his head and staggers over to the mirror in the corner, teeth gritted as his brain instantly rationalizes the  _ weirdness _ of this as mostly likely being yet another one of Shuri’s pranks. He wipes a hand over his face, considering just how much T’Challa’s leniency would extend if he knew he was contemplating killing his sister. 

He doesn’t get to finish the train of thought, though, because when he comes upon the mirror, it’s not his own reflection staring back at him. 

It’s T’Challa’s.

For a moment, Erik just stands there. He stands there, flicking his eyes to and fro, lifting and lowering his arms, puffing up his cheeks, all just to confirm that it’s not some kind of trick. Then, forcing the rapid pounding of his heart to settle, Erik draws closer and reaches out to press a palm upon the glass. 

Those are T’Challa’s eyes. Eyes usually so carefully-guarded, ever the picture of diplomacy, now wide with increasing, unrestrained panic. Erik knows those eyes, and those eyes are now his eyes. 

Seemingly of its own volition, a hand comes up to brush against his cheek. And there are no scars, no calluses, nothing to distinguish it as his own. 

That was T’Challa’s bed he woke up in. Those are T’Challa’s eyes, big-ole, dumbass rabbit eyes, staring back at him. And this is T’Challa’s body that he’s in. 

When he lets loose a stream of curses, his voice comes out with a Wakandan accent, and he has to ball his hands in his too-short hair to keep himself from truly losing his shit.

. . .

He doesn’t stay for long. There’s a reason Erik had to have his own room custom-made, and that reason is because he’s never been much one for luxurious lifestyles; there’s just something about the big, fluffy drapes, the wide, welcoming bay window, the soft, cottony carpet that makes him uncomfortable, makes him feel like an intrusive outsider.

Of course, the feeling’s only magnified now that he’s inhabiting T’Challa’s body. The moment Erik breaks free of the surprise, he turns, darts out the door, and takes off down the hall. It’s just his luck that he only gets a few yards in when he rounds the corner and nearly crashes into one of the Dora. 

“Goddamnit”, Erik hisses, inhaling sharply as he unclenches a fist. “Do you ever make any noise?”   
Okoye frowns, her lips pursed as she cocks her head to the side. “No”, she says, slow and distinct as if he should know this. Then she smiles. “It’s why I’m so good at my job.”   
She reaches out, ignoring the disgruntled noise Erik makes, and presses the back of her hand to the side of his neck. She doesn't relent, and, as the moment lingers, Erik finds himself losing the urge to push away. The gesture’s soft, tender; it reminds him of his mother, checking him for fevered eyes and balmy skins when he was sick as a kid. He remembers reacting the same; lashing, snapping out, until his mother’s stubbornness overwhelmed his own and made him resign himself to an inspection. Erik hasn’t had anyone check on him like this since he was still slumming it with Child Services. Since then, only T’Challa’s been bold enough to express concerns about his health, but even then, it’s stilted and awkward and  _ weird _ , much like most of their interactions.

He doesn’t tell Okoye any of this, but the uneasiness he always feels around her simmers out to a mild annoyance.

“Kumkani”, Okoye says, bringing him out of his reverie. “Are you all right?”   
Erik blinks. He looks up to her, thinks of his mother, and finds his chest tightening. It’s too early for this

With a scowl, he slaps her hand away and takes a step back. He scoffs, folds his arms over his chest, and turns his nose up. “Yeah. Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”   
She just continues to stare; her smile shifts over into a smirk as she presses the tip of her staff to his chest. Not in the threatening manner as she would if he were in his own body but teasingly, like a noogie amongst siblings. “Because you are wandering the halls in your trousers.”   
Erik’s scowl softens. He glances down at himself and feels his eyebrows jump because, well, she’s not wrong. Because T’Challa apparently sleeps in his underwear, like a weirdo that doesn’t have to worry about the possibility of having to bolt in the middle of the night. Quite frankly, it’s a fact he hadn’t needed nor wanted to learn about T’Challa, but he supposes he’s gonna be learning a lot about his cousin in the coming hours.

“I’m fine”, Erik mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just, you know, figured I’d go for a little walk this morning.”

Okoye raises an eyebrow. “Half-naked?”

Erik’s lips peel back into a cheeky smile. “If I so desire.” Before she can get another word in, he clears his throat and turns to walk away, but Okoye just juts her hand out and pushes him back into his spot. 

“Man, what is your deal”, Erik hisses. “I got shit to do and places to go, I haven’t got time for any of this-”   
“Time for what, exactly?”, Okoye asks with a pointed look. “And where are you going dressed like that?”

Erik purses his lips. He stares at Okoye, aggrieved beyond all belief, but he doesn’t say anything . She doesn't either. She just sighs, gives his cheek a light pat, and shakes her head at him. “Get some sleep, T’Challa. And.” As she’s turning to make her leave, she pauses, spear hovering just inches over the ground as she turns to look over her shoulder. “Maybe give N’Jadaka some space. I think he’s having an influence on you.”   
She disappears down the hall, and Erik sighs; he swipes a hand over his forehead, then turns and takes off in the opposite direction. “Oh, you have no idea.”   


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think and I'll (maybe) see y'all next week.


End file.
